The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep10: NoSleep Podcast S17E10

Episode Date: February 6, 2022

It's Episode 10 of Season 17. Our spells will warm you into endless sleep."Accepted" written by Sean Michael (Story starts around 00:03:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Jeff Clement, Boy #1 - Matthew Bradford, Boy #2 - Dan Zappulla, Boy #3 - Kyle Akers"Mandala" written by Jay Sisco (Story starts around 00:13:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Tiffany - Jessica McEvoy"Three Lanes Deep" written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:39:05)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Andy Cresswell, Lucy - Erika Sanderson, Lucas - David Ault, Woman with Camper - Penny Scott-Andrews, Guy in Neighboring Car - James Cleveland"Stability" written by Tor-Anders Ulven (Story starts around 01:13:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Norma - Nikolle Doolin, Kendra - Nichole Goodnight"Claire's Apocalypse" written by K.T. Rose (Story starts around 01:18:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, Claire - Kristen DiMercurio, Special Agent Hopper - Graham Rowat, General Murry - Mick Wingert, General Bosco - Jesse Cornett, Dr. Ramirez - Erin Lillis, Major Daldry - Kyle Akers, Monica - Sarah Ruth Thomas, French Adams - Atticus Jackson, Samantha - Nichole Goodnight, Woman #1 - Mary Murphy, Woman #2 - Wafiyyah WhiteClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about the "Spirited Giving" live show at The Stanley Hotel Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor Click here to learn more about K.T. Rose Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Three Lanes Deep" illustration courtesy of Thea ArnmanAudio program ©2022 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

In times long gone, in days of yore, there are legends and tales of dark folklore. Round candlelight and fireside, the tales are shared. Enchanting dark secrets in hushed toads declared. And from those days, both present and peasanting, We beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. The sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. Have you ever asked yourself this question?

How can I visit the most celebrated haunted hotel in America while also meeting some of the best horror writers out there and at the same time see the No Sleep Podcast perform live? Well, believe it or not, I have an answer to that very specific question. You just need to get tickets to Spirited Giving on May 10th at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. The iconic Stanley Hotel is proud to partner with the Necronoma.com and the Horror Writers Association to host the official StokerCon pre-party on Tuesday, May 10th, 2022. It will feature a lineup of acclaimed horror writers,

including New York Times bestselling author Stephen Graham Jones and our own Gemma Amour, who has a story for us on this very episode. And I'll be joined by Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Goodnight, Sarah Thomas, and the Maestro Brandon Boone, as the No Sleep podcast performs two original scripts at the event. There will be a pre-show cocktail party, and you'll have a chance to take a ghost tour of the Haunted Stanley Hotel,

which inspired Stephen King to write The Shining. All ticket proceeds will go to the Glenhaven area volunteer fire department. Check the link in the show notes for tickets and all the details about this very special one-night-only event. Come get Rocky Mountain High with us at the Stanley Hotel. You'll want to stay there forever. Now, closer to home, next week, things get all cozy and cuddly as we celebrate a certain, Loving holiday. And it's not like we're a horror podcast or anything,

so you don't need to worry about anything horrendous ruining your romantic night in. But for now, let's make the right choice by joining people who are prone to making a bunch of bad choices as we start the show. In our first tale, we join Frank, who's been waiting anxiously by the mailbox for the results of his college application. It can be excruciating, waiting on a decision that could affect your entire, life. And in this tale, shared with us by author Sean Michael, we get to experience Frank's elation firsthand as the next stage of his life begins with no regrets. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, Dan Zepula, and Kyle Akers. So let's help Frank share the news with his friends and family. They're bound to be thrilled when they hear he's been accepted. Frank stared at the single

word for so long that the hour hand on the pretentious modern clock had visibly moved by several degrees. The kitchen was sleek, surfaces shone with a dull bright reflection of stainless steel. He looked around the familiar room, shaken by the word. He felt as though he stood outside of time and space as he re-read it over and over again. Frank neatly folded the letter back into thirds and gently slid it back into the messily torn open envelope and placed it back onto the cold counter. Never in his wildest dreams did Frank think he'd get into the university. The school were all his friends had applied and had all been accepted over the previous weeks and months. His grades and test scores were low when he knew it, but there was always the chance of an athletic scholarship.

Frank wasn't smart, but he was huge and a natural linebacker. something him and his mother had literally prayed would get him into a good university. The prayers had apparently worked. Frank's father had gone to the movies some ten years ago and never come back. So it was his mother who'd come to every practice, tutored him in math, and helped him write every paper, all well-working double shifts at the local diner. She told him that if the worst happened and he didn't get any scholarships,

they could always take out loans. She'd always said that word, loans, with the kind of quiet desperation and resignation that only somebody already crushed by financial debt could muster. But as his final semester in high school began, the days turned to weeks. And as those weeks approached the middle marker that was spring break, he'd received no collegiate correspondence.

The prospect of Frank's failure began to weigh on him. And even worse, his three closest friends and teammates had been accepted on full-ride scholarships to the University of Alabama. It was just a state over, but Frank saw this as the end. He saw the lights go out on his already dim future. And without his friends, he would have to make his way alone. A smile slowly spread across his face. and with a jolt, he snatched up the envelope, crumbling it in his tight grasp.

Envelope in hand, Frank strode, nearly skipping with excitement across the room and through the connecting hallway, arriving at the large, barred basement door at its end. Frank paused, looking between the two-by-four locking the door in place. The letter still crumpled in his tight grasp. He had to tell them. They would understand, he quickly rationalized to himself. With a look of determination, he lifted the bar with his free hand, and he swung the door outward. He wouldn't have to be alone anymore, he thought.

He would be with his friends, and they would be happy, all together at college. Frank took the stairs to the basement, two at a time, nearly faulting on the slippery second step from the bottom. Quickly writing himself, he entered the dimly lit room, tracking dark boot-price, from the second step from the bottom all the way to the center. There, facing each corner of the room, sat four chairs, on three of which athletically built young men slumped, though Frank was easily twice the size of any of them, all bound, gagged, and blindfolded.

The fourth chair sat noticeably empty. Frank turned his gaze to the ground behind him, at the base of the staircase, to his mother. In the brown pool lay a woman, face down, with long blonde hair. Her body broken and the back of her skull caved in. The remnants of a large boot print still visible, the same size and tread as the bloody prince Frank had tracked in just seconds ago. Turning and looking at her body,

he immediately registered the smell, the smell of human waste, decaying flesh and the copper tinge. Frank's eyes began to water as he pushed the urge to vomit further down, suppressed by his psychosis. It was wrong of her to try to stop him. Frank was an adult, after all. If he wanted his closest friends to stay together, they would. and there was nothing anyone, even his mother could do to prevent that. Even the stench of decay couldn't strip the grin from his face as he shouted that everything would be okay and that they could all go to school together after all.

But as he scanned the room, looking closer at his best friends, a horrible thought crept into his mind. Something he hadn't considered after his mom had slipped her bonds and tried to his escape. He'd focused too much on making sure his friends wouldn't wriggle loose, that he'd left his meek mother as an afterthought. She'd made it to the top of the stairs and was banging, screaming for help. He'd come home from class early that Friday, sent home since three-star athletes were officially missing. The other students were concerned. The police thought it was a classic senior, skip out early for spring break. Still, the students had been sent home.

home, and Frank had opened his front door to pounding deep in the house. She made him so angry. What if somebody had heard? When he had unbarred the door, it had launched outward, swinging hard and leaving a deep gash in his forehead were it connected. She tried to jolt past him as he staggered back, but she hadn't been fast enough. His massive arm shot out and his fingers found purchase around her wrist. He snapped her back toward the open door like a whip, feeling her bones crumpled beneath his grip.

She had screamed in pain as she fought for her life and bounced off the doorframe, shattering her collar and shoulder where she impacted. Frank recovered from his backward stumble and felt a leaking gash in his forehead, and his mouth wrenched into a scowl. He lumbered forward and kicked his screaming mother down the long staircase. His boot connected with her forehead, and he felt it give way beneath the force. At the bottom, he stepped on her head again until the moaning and screaming had stopped. She made him so angry, trying to stop him from doing what he wanted to do.

Who was she to tell him that he couldn't keep his friends together? The screaming and crying was still there, so he had stomped down again. But its intensity only grew. What the fuck? What the fuck? Oh, my God. He killed her. He fucking killed her. Frank did not hear these words.

Only the storm of sound that would not quiet. He lumbered up the stairs as the blood continued to drip from his wound into his eyes. He's leaving us here. Oh, my fucking God, he's leaving us with her. No, please. We won't go. Don't leave him. us here. We won't tell anyone. No, Frank! Then he had barred the door. Now, he stood in the

putrid room. He'd been so angry for so long. But that had been at the beginning of spring break two weeks ago. It may shock you to learn that from time to time we here at the No Sleep podcast receive, well, complaints. Yes, it's true. And perhaps the biggest complaint we receive is that we offer nothing in the way of insomnia advice or treatment. Ah, but help is at hand. Author Jay Sisko has kindly shared with us a guided bedtime meditation to help you drift off. Performing this public service is Jessica McAvoy. So here's to being sleepy, dear sleepless. Get comfortable and listen how you want, you can close your eyes, or you can gaze into the Mandala. Stephanie, welcome to another guided bedtime meditation.

I hope you've been following along with me these last 45 days, and I hope you've been telling your friends about these sessions as well, since they are a great way to detox and de-stress, especially if your daily tasks have been more challenging than usual. Now, we'll begin today's practice by sitting in any way that feels comfortable. I prefer to sit cross-legged, but any way that suits you is perfectly fine. Place the emphasis on the flow of your breath here. Make sure you can get those inhales all the way to the lower belly. You may also want to close your eyes to help you focus,

but if you have one of my Mandela posters, feel free to look at that instead. We just want to minimize any distractions, okay? So, as always, we'll begin with some deep, soothing breaths. Inhale for four seconds. Hail for four seconds. Be heavy. Let it fall in any way it likes as long as it's comfortable. Feel some of the tension you've built up over the day,

maybe from running or pulling something heavy. all you need to do is just focus on relaxing the parts of your body where you feel that strain. Remember to unclench your jaw and feel free to tilt your head from side to side to help loosen that up. Take some time here to worry about whether you're doing it right or what's going to happen next. Just let yourself be. Feel the weight of your body against the floor to the sounds nearby. The way these practices work is that we'll focus on different points of stress for the mind, for the spirit, for the soul, and we'll work on allowing our minds to release those thoughts,

not letting them dominate our behavior, not letting them interrupt our work, letting them dissipate, bringing ourselves back to the present, remembering that we have agency and strength and purpose, that we can and will get through whatever is troubling us. As we're meditating, feeling our breath naturally draw in and out of our bodies. We get some of these upsetting or distracting ideas. People get all kinds of thoughts in these quiet times.

Perhaps we're remembering a stressful moment from the day, or thinking about a loved one who isn't there anymore. Sometimes we might even worry that, you know, we're bad people or that the things we're doing are wrong. And it's important to remember when we have these thoughts, that shadows, doubts, and anxieties trying to interrupt our journey to inner peace. And so when we encounter those thoughts, all we need to do is note them. Note that you're having these feelings and gently lead your mind back to the bright, back to the sensation of your body as it sits here with me, go through this process a few times

every session. In fact, if you're just starting out, it might feel like you're doing it constantly. But as long as you keep noting these thoughts and understanding that they don't make you a bad person, that nobody who matters will ever judge you, that the things you do, that we do, will only seem strange or wrong to those who haven't accepted his light, and that this is all in his name. Eventually, when they cross your mind, they become more like butterflies flapping past your window. Just a fleeting moment. As we continue with these sessions, you will find that your daily tasks, though they might feel daunting, perhaps even frightening, also become much easier.

as we work on keeping the mind steady, within our grasp at all times, not letting it pull us along with it as it veers toward panic and fear. Because, you know, everyone struggles from time to time. What we are expected to do is not always conventional. Sometimes it's chaotic. Sometimes it's messy. Sometimes the task at hand feels like something we aren't supposed to be done. doing. But now that we've gained this higher control of our minds, now that we can keep those

racing thoughts and step with us, the things we can do in his name increase by the day until no amount of conflict, fear, or blood can hold us back. Now that we've settled into a nice, even rhythm, I think it's time for our daily mantras. These mantras are just some simple phrases we repeat on a daily basis. I'll list a few, but you can just pick out one that resonates with you to help you set your mood for the next day in your journey. You know, these mantras are great for when your mind is racing with all these questions and worries. When the mind is trying to drag us away from his light, or when outsiders are distracting us with their unenlightened thoughts, remembering our mantra, repeating it in our minds as often as needs.

until we're through that difficulty really helps keep us on track. Today's mantras are, I am capable of anything. I trust myself. My mind is just another part of me. I listen to my emotions, but I do not let them control me. A magnet for his light. When I am afraid, I will love. Look to my peers for guidance.

There is no such thing as perfection, and I am okay with that. The work is hard, but I handle it with grace and dignity. My wants pale against his needs. I trust my fellows to correct me where I am blind. My body was made for this. It will not fail me. There are no innocence among the unenlightened. He is coming, is coming.

He is coming. The shadows already whisper his name. His light will burn away my imperfections. I offer my thanks in blood, nearly one cell in a great body. I will spare, who cannot be saved. The door is already open.

We are already inside. I will deafen myself to ignorant cries. I will leave no survivors, no witnesses. I trust myself to know where to strike. The knees, the neck, the eyes, sides my strikes. Where I am not efficient, I am swift covers all. The earth thanks me for this gift. They have run out of air.

Nobody will hear them. They will not be found. My eyes are yet to open, but they will. I am safe in his burning embrace. I have the love of my peers, and that is a lot of my peers. enough collective about these mantras and about which one fits with your intention for tomorrow. Think slowly about the tasks you've been assigned, not going into the details, keeping the mind within our grasp, but just thinking about them in plain words. Perhaps if you're recruiting new

members to our little collective and need some extra strength as you filter through the confused and unenlightened, you may benefit from remembering that you are a magnet for his light. And those of us tasked with tending to our crops and livestock should remember that their bodies are made for the job at hand and will not fail them. Some of us may have noticed a slight tension in the air around us when we venture into the world of late, in our peer group, or in a group outside the cleansing circle of light. Maybe we felt some negativity and doubt, some resistance, not unlike the pull of the muscles as we stretch our spines to sit upright so that we can breathe clearly. It's important to remember that these pulls, these oppositions, they should always be met with an open palm.

Just as we inhale to bring in trust and positivity, we must invite others to join. or rejoin the collective, we must show them that there is no judgment here, that only friendship awaits them. Often we find ourselves with a new friend, a new member of our beautiful, glowing family, safe from the harsh storms of the world beyond. But even when that opposition holds strong, we don't despair, we don't worry, safe in the knowledge that we are privileged that we are protected from the darkness, from doubt, from isolation, we exhale, and we spare those who cannot be saved. Our high missionaries, tasked with returning these tumultuous waves to the body of water, must take some time to thank the collective, for its cleansing herbs which hasten the unenlightened to the earth.

For those among us who volunteer these individuals for rescue, just as a doctor removes an infected finger to save the hand. Even high missionaries, I'm told, can doubt themselves from time to time. And so we must remember that although their work can be taxing, it is nothing compared to his wrath. For when he arrives, his light will scour the earth and bleach it clean, preserving the bodies of the unenlightened in an endless inferno from which there is no escape. To him, we are so small that only the enlightened may truly know his glory.

The rest, like insects, will be crushed beneath his mighty sandaled feet. He will pluck them like flowers from the garden, admiring them as they wither before him. Their screams will go unheard. from the smallest infant as he crushes it between his fingers, to the grief-stricken mother bashing at his ankles, obliterated with a single step forward. It is for us to save as many as we can from this fate. Be they old friends, family, or even one another.

Nobody is beyond sparing. It is only the enlightened who can survive, guiding our Savior through this unfamiliar world as his light burns it clean for us to start anew. He will recognize us as friends, for we come together and grow in spirit to a size recognizable to him. He will accept us as his children, his lovers, his companions, and here he will complete his sacred journey through the stars. He will expire in a hail, of fire and that which he has not devastated with his presence shall be eviscerated by his death. Leaving the collective to build the world and those who cannot be saved, only resistance brings

pain. High missionaries, remember that no matter the method required, be it the knife or the herb, or sealing the unenlightened where they will not be found until death has come for them, anything is better than the devastation of his coming. And we remember that, just as the pig works to scour its trough, so must we work to fill it. Whether they lie beneath the earth or are spread across its many fields in fragments, in smoke or in water, those we have spared nourish the soil. They ready the world for our new beginning,

and for that they receive his blessing. And we take a moment here to think about those that we have saved, those who have joined us in the collective, in our mission, and in this guided meditation today. Our hearts beating to the same rhythm, our lungs breathing the same rich air, and our minds all centered on that which is most important of His light. We stand encapsulated in his fiery heart, the righteous cut of his gaze bending around us as he walks with us, hand in hand.

As we close today's meditation, let us inhale and think of this fast approaching future. And as we exhale, let us expel our doubts, our fears, our earthly attachments so as to make room for his love. Purs the darkness. Let his hand rend the flesh. Let his eye penetrate the soul. And let his power reign eternal. Criptures of Ciborne. He will descend from the heavens in a mighty inferno,

bringing with him the fire of a thousand dying stars. And the sky shall be swallowed in the toothy maw of his serpentine mother, until nothing remains but the light of his beauty and his obedience children. Thank you ever so much for joining me, everyone. Don't forget to save this video on your bookmarks for when you really need it, and make sure to send it to a friend who might benefit from some mindfulness. We all deserve a little reassurance now and then. Also remember to book your tickets for the next get-together in London.

So many influential members of the collective are going to be, there, offering their wisdom and advice, and you really, really don't want to miss it. Once again, I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to attend last year, but unfortunately, his light called me to a different purpose. That said, hopefully I'll be able to make it this year. I know lots of you are really eager to meet me. I'm talking about you, Mr. Tiffany 9068. I've been reading everyone's letters and can't wait to meet you all in person, so please do make sure you attend. Tickets are $3,600, and you can find them at thecollectivedream.com slash events. Well, guys, that's all from me for now.

Good night and sweet dreams, everyone. I hope I've helped soothe your mind if you were feeling troubled and maybe eased you into the right energy for a good night's sleep. May his light shine forever within you, my children. And may you always remember your friends in the collective. Now that we've reached the end of that story, did you hear how seamlessly she worked in that ad? The collectivedream.com slash events. Ah, it just rolled off her tongue so well.

You're right, teacher. I've got a lot to learn. Don't worry. Here at the coming school of audio advertising, we promise results. Now, let's hear what you're working on. Just talk into the microphone? That's right. Just relax and speak naturally. If you sell stuff online, you're definitely in the right business. More people are shopping online than ever.

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school of audio advertising. You sell actual products? Oh sure. T-shirts, mouse pads, sexy thongs with my face on them, lots of great merch. Now let's give this next part some more pizzazz. You'll even get access to amazing discounts with major carriers, including UPS, FedEx and USPS. Easily compare carriers and choose the best solution every time. With Ship Station, small businesses can now access the same rates usually reserved for Fortune 500 companies without the contracts or commitments. You're doing great. And yeah, it's no wonder Ship Station has more five-star reviews than any other shipping software. Okay, now we're at the most important part.

This is called the Call to Action. Go for it. Ship more in less time. Just use our offer code no sleep to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of. no hassle, stress-free shipping. Nice. Or you could try it like this.

Just go to shipstation.com. Click on the microphone at the top of the page and type in no sleep. That's shipstation.com. Enter offer code no sleep. You're so good at this, Sensei. Well, I've had lots of practice. Now, the big finale. Ship Station.

Make ship happen. Perfect. You're getting so much better. And only six more years. until I graduate. Ha, ha. And now let's drive back to the horror before the traffic gets worse.

Who doesn't love long car trips with the family? Stuck inside a steel box in close proximity to each other, moving at the whims of the traffic around you? It's a sweltering day and the air conditioning is broken. And in this tale, shared with us by author Gemma Amour, it's clear that we're on the freeway to frustration. Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, Erica Sanderson, David Alt, Penny Scott Andrews, and James Cleveland. So don't put the pedal to the metal, we're not moving fast enough for that.

Just be patient, because the traffic jam is three lanes deep. Lucy is stuck. As traffic jams go, it is the worst she has ever encountered. Hundreds of cars stand gridlocked, nose to tail. and three lanes deep on the motorway all around her. A broiling midsummer sun beats down mercilessly upon the mall, and the air shimmers with a thick, soupy heat. It bounces off countless bonnets and windscreens,

and she can see it rippling over the grey-worn tarmac, like wrinkles in a pond when a stone is thrown. She has been trapped like this for almost an hour now, trapped, desperately hot and horribly miserable. There is no shade, no breeze, and no cloud cover in the sky, just a blazing white ball of fire burning relentlessly. Her car ticks and groans gently as the brutal heat forces the metal to expand, warp, contract again, an unwelcome percussive accompaniment to her misery. Her brother, Lucas, shifts in his seat beside her, a steady trickle of sweat making its way

down the right side of his face. He keeps wiping it away with the palms of his hands, then shaking them to flick the sweat off. Little salty droplets splat onto the dashboard and across Lucy's right arm, making her flinch. It is driving her mad. Stop doing that. It's disgusting. She wipes her arm with the bottom of her damp shirt.

Lucas lets out a frustrated moan, ignoring her and wiping his brow for the third. thousandth time. He bangs the steering wheel with his hands, letting his frustration and discomfort show. It takes a lot for his usually cool and collected exterior to slip, and Lucy can see that he is on the verge of losing his temper. He isn't the only one. It's hotter than the devil's ass crack in here. His face turns an even brighter shade of red. Lucy wonders briefly about spontaneous combustion and how hot a person has to be before they actually melt, or burst into flames, or simply disintegrate into a pile of ash.

Here. She passes him an almost empty bottle of water. He takes it and swigs, then grimaces. Oh, hot, gross. The air conditioning in the car is broken and has been for well over a year. The siblings have been nagging their dad to get it fixed, but he's not. He keeps muttering about the cost of parts and labour being more than the worth of the whole car. And so here they are, immobilized.

The windows wound down as far as they will go. Zombies sitting in a heat that is as thick as freshly poured tarmac. It pins them to their seats. Lucy feels as if a huge, hot cow is lying on top of her. She can't think properly. She can't speak. She can barely breathe. How much longer do we have to see?

sit here. Her brother snorts. Well, if the fucking radio worked in this pile of shit car, we'd be able to get traffic updates, wouldn't we? Oh, but it doesn't work, does it? Just like the aircon, and the windscreen wipers, and the front left indicator, and the sat nav, because Dad doesn't believe in fixing things, does he? Prick. They sit in silence for a while longer, before Lucy thinks to look at her phone. Her fingers slip with moisture, slide uselessly across a blank black screen. Phone battery's dead. Yours?

Lucas shakes his head. Died about three hours ago. They sigh for the thousandth time and return to staring listlessly through the front windscreen. Time passes. A strange, rich smell slowly begins to permeate the air around them,

faint at first, and then as the minutes crawl past with more intensity. Lucy wrinkles her nose. What's that? Fucking stinks. Lucas shifts in his chair, wincing. Christ knows.

Probably some roadkill nearby, or maybe the tarmac melting. Does fucking stink. I don't think it's tarmac. Well, I don't fucking know, Lucy, all right? You're welcome to get out and explore for me if it bothers you that much. There is something odd in his eyes, as he says this. Something knowing. His words sound rehearsed, almost stagy, disingenuous.

Lucy cannot for the life of her figure out why, but she feels somehow as if Lucas knows where the smell is coming from and doesn't want to tell her. They lapse into silence and the smell intensifies. Lucy dismisses her doubts about Lucas as extreme fatigue on her behalf and returns to staring out of the window, acutely aware that every moment that passes is a moment. moment of her life that she will never recover, never enjoy. The futility of her situation

depresses her almost to the point of coma, and her chin drifts towards her chest as she begins to doze. The sun blazes on. A sound swells in the distance. Lucy frowns, waking from her half sleep. It sounds like a motor, but everything around her is now parked, handbrakes on, engine switched off. She twists in her seat, the leather sticking to her skin and tugging at it painfully. She manages to crane her head around and is just about to stick it out of her window for a better look when a motorbike appears right next to the car, roaring past at a gleeful breakneck speed with near millimeters to spare. Lucy has a split second to react, yanking her head backwards before the bike takes it clean off.

She shakes her fist after the bike like an angry old man in a cartoon. The motorbike and its leather-clad rider ignore her, weaving easily between the lanes of parked cars, vans, lorries and trucks, then disappears from view. She catches the eyes of three lads who are in the car immediately to the left of her, on the passenger side, her side. The driver grins at her, leans out of his own window, and shouts after the motorbike.

He makes the appropriate hand gesture, and Lucy smiles back weakly, her heart thudding in her chest from shock, and then slumps back into her seat. Oh, there's always one, isn't there? Always one smug bastard who thinks he's better than us because he has two wheels instead of four. Lucy doesn't answer. She wishes she was on that bike, moving forward, only moving forward, making headway instead of baking in the midday sun in the middle of the fucking M-4. like a tray of overdone flapjacks. And that smell? Oh, God. That smell is worse now than ever before. She begins to think that Lucas is right about roadkill.

It smells foul and yet sweet. Like the sugar beet factory she used to smell near her house when she was a child. A headache pokes at her temples. Another ten minutes creak by. The sun shines down. The temperature on the dashboard indicator ticks up another degree. Lucy loses her battle with frustration. What the fuck is going on up there?

She gestures vaguely at the long queue of stationary traffic in front of them. She is beginning to feel desperate. There is a new problem to add to her load. A burgeoning need to urinate has made itself known, despite, or perhaps because of, her dehydrated state. Her brother shrugs. Probably a smash up ahead. I could see blue lights flashing earlier.

There are too many bloody people on this earth. Lucy shifts in her seat to try and ease the pressure on her bladder. You've said that quite a lot on this trip. You sound like Dad, have I told you that? Shut up, Lucas. Her bladder cramps, and she winces and bites her lip. Time crawls on, and nothing changes except the smell, which gets worse and worse.

and worse, until she is convinced it is a living, writhing, tangible thing, invading her orifices, crawling down her throat, choking her. The smell, the cars, the heat, and the building pressure on her bladder. That's all her life has become now. A collection of uncomfortable things to be born. I'm going to live out the rest of my days in this traffic jam. I'll become a melted lump of a person like the stubble. of an old candle left on a windowsill.

The sun shines on. The temperature readout on the dash clicks up to 33 degrees. As the second hour of their predicament approaches, people begin to get out of their cars. They stretch luxuriously and congregate in the gaps between lanes, standing around, smoking, crouching down,

doing anything to avoid sitting and roasting in their tin boxes on wheels. It makes Lucy feel, slightly better that there are obviously other motorists who haven't fixed their aircon either. Doors open and shut all along the motorway. Voices begin to rise and mingle, and gradually the feel of something almost festive spreads, as people united in their suffering do what they can to make the best of it. The lads in the car to the left of them, get out, pop open the boot, pull out a cooler box of cold Coke cans, and begin passing them around.

The driver of the car presses one into Lucy's hand through her open window. Here you go, sweetheart. Can't he smell that? She swallows back bile, but apparently he can't. She smiles tremulously, grateful, now almost incapable of speech. The burning desire to go to the toilet has grown all-consuming. She looks at Lucas. I need to go to the bathroom.

The smell is now so foul, she fears she might faint. She can see it as affecting him, too. The muscles in his jaw work overtime as he fights to control his stomach. A reluctant sympathy spreads across his face nonetheless. Come on, I passed a woman in a camper van her ways back before we got gridlocked. I bet she's stuck too, and I bet she'll have a toilet you can use if we ask nicely. Lucy nods, on the verge of tears, and unpeels herself slowly from the sticky, hot leather of the car seat.

anything to get away from the cloying, all-pervasive stench of whatever it was. If she thought it was hot in the car, she is in for a treat as she steps out onto the burning tarmac. It hits her like a bat to the face, solid, searing heat. She can feel it rising through the soles of her sandals. Her bladder threatening to explode, all she can think is... Help. I'm in hell. The boys from the neighbouring car are putting up a parasol they have somehow stashed in the boot of their car. Come and join us under here.

Lucy scans the motorway desperately, looking for the camper van Lucas mentioned. I've just got to go stretch my legs first. Her brother smirks, gives the lad a knowing look. Call the nature. The boys chuckle as she turns beetroot red. Good luck with that. No much privacy out here. Lucy is silent, miserable, shifting from one foot to the other constantly.

Oh, come on then, save us a spot under that brolly. We'll do. The siblings turn and walk towards the camper van, which Lucy eventually spots parked about six cars back in the slow lane. It seems to glow in the sunshine, the promise of relief a holy grail to her right now. As they approach, Lucy hobbling and... and holding her stomach, she takes comfort in two things, that the smell is subsiding the further

she gets from her car, and the fact that the van is more of a full-scale motorhome than a camper, a huge old chrome thing, an American-style Winnebago. It gleams like a great silver bullet in the glare of the sun, and is hard to look at the closer she gets, so she must shield her eyes. And the driver of the van is indeed a woman, as Lucas is a woman. As Lucas is a man. had said, she sits next to her vehicle in a folding camp chair, a cold glass of something in one hand, a small umbrella that she is using as a parasol held elegantly in the other. She wears huge black sunglasses and a massive sun hat that throws her whole face into shadow. She looks as if she is on holiday in the French Riviera, not stuck in a traffic jam on a shitty motorway

alongside thousands of other unfortunates. Lucy lets her brother do the talking. Hi there. The woman smiles and lifts an eyebrow above the rim of her glasses, an inquisitive and sexy gesture that Lucas appears to appreciate. By this point, Lucy couldn't care less if she has five pairs of eyes stuck to the ends of each fingertip, she needs to piss so badly. She is so close to losing control of her bladder that her whole body is now cramped with the effort of not letting go, not like this, not in front of rows and rows of people. Just hang on. Just hang on.

Hello. Lucas turns his charm up to ten on the dial. I don't suppose we could ask a huge favour, could we? We've been stuck in this traffic jam for almost two hours now, and my sister here doesn't feel very well. In fact, to tell the truth, to tell the truth, she desperately needs to use the bathroom. But, well, out here, there aren't even any trees she can hide behind.

and we were wondering, as you have this big van, whether you might allow her to use the bathroom, if you have one, you'd be helping us out in desperate times. Lucy is beyond desperate now, hopping from foot to foot, tears welling in her eyes. She has seconds before she cannot hold it anymore. I'm so sorry to ask. I mean, I'll pay you for the inconvenience. The woman holds up a hand to silence her. Oh, don't be silly.

I've been there. I understand. Of course you can use my bathroom. She stands gracefully, folding the umbrella and opens the side access door to the van. Just in there? She has an odd, secretive smile on her face. But Lucy doesn't have time to think about this. She only needs relief and almost faint with gratitude as the woman holds the door open for her. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are my hero. Lucy's scrabbles at the cabinet door and then fumbles to shut it behind her.

She sees a fully flushable toilet mounted to the wall to the left of her. She hastily drags her clothes down past her knees, fingers and hands now ten sizes too big for her. She is sweaty and hot and everything is swollen, sticking and catching in the moisture of the day. She wrestles with her knickers, and eventually they do as they are told, and she finally, finally, blissfully, wonderfully, is able to relieve herself. Water jets out of her in an urgent, hot stream of relief.

Afterwards, she sags against the small toilet cabinet door, panting, overcome. Blessed, blessed relief. She thanks her lucky stars for the Winnebago and the woman in dark glasses. She flushes and resumes the wrestling match with her sticky, sweaty clothes. Once dressed properly, she looks around for some soap. There is a dispenser on the far cabinet wall mounted above a tiny chrome sink, and she reaches out to depress the pump. Something moves just behind the dispenser.

A tiny, tiny, tiny moves. movement, barely perceptible, but it catches her eye. Lucy freezes, arm outstretched. The movement occurs once more. She squeaks in surprise and then leans in closer, peering at the source, and finds a hole, cut into the cabinet wall, very like an empty knot hole that she find in wooden floorboard sometimes. It is perfectly round and about the size of a coin. and there is something alive behind it. What the fuck? Behind the wall there is more movement, another small noise.

She frowns and leans in closer, trying to see what it is behind the hole. Is someone else in the van? A partner maybe, or a pet, in the next partition. Lucy had thought the woman was alone. She gave that impression, but she hadn't exactly paid too much attention either way. She'd been distracted, another slight shifting, and another noise. A distinctly human-sounding noise. Almost a moan.

Moaning? Lucy's brain immediately leaps to the worst possible conclusion. Peeping Tom, pervert, spyhole, voyeur, watching me in the toilet. No wonder that woman had been so keen to let her in. It's obviously something she does, some perverted kink she's into. Sure, you can use the facilities, but there's a price to pay. Your privacy. Oh, God, what if there are cameras rigged up?

Suddenly angry, she thrusts her right eye close to the hole and peers in, trying to identify the source of the moaning. And she sees a man in the half dark, bound, gagged and propped upright in a small adjoining storage cabinet. A thin light leaks into the cabinet, probably from cracks around a door Lucy can't see, or more missing knot holes in the wood. The light sits gently upon the man's prone form like dust,

highlighting his face and the bare skin of his shoulders, which move up and down in jerky, panicked twitches. Lucy stares in disbelief at him. slowly registering the cable ties around his wrists and ankles, the lack of clothing except for stained and dirty underwear, the blood. He is covered in blood, as if painted with it, and his eyes are wide, nostrils flared with a mad type of terror.

He moans again and makes a gurgling noise, low in his throat. He knows someone is there. He wants Lucy to help him. Oh God. Oh, God. Her hand flutters up to her mouth. She is cold all over, an alien feeling given the heat of the day. Lucy jerks her head back from the hole, heart thumping, her own blood pounding in her ears.

She checks behind her to see if the toilet door is still locked. It is. Trembling, she slowly puts her eye to the peephole once more. The man rolls his head back. the moaning, gurgling sound rattling out into the closed space. Then Lucy sees the wound on his neck, fresh and deep and wet, like a wide open mouth. His throat has been cut, probably only moments before she'd walked into this van. He is dying.

Lucy recalls the odd, secretive smile on the mysterious woman's face as she'd opened the door for her, Knowing what was hidden inside the van, thrilling to her own dirty little secret, the man continues to fight for his life, blood sheeting down his naked body. Paralyzed, with her face glued to the wall, Lucy watches as he struggles to breathe, his chest fluttering with tiny, futile movements as he tries to draw air in through his severed windpipe. His focus locks on to her. one disbelieving eye peering in at him through the spyhole, and he pleads silently for help. But she knows, deep down, in some instinctive way, that he is beyond help. And so Lucy watches, a prisoner in time, a statue, and the man moans again, and then gargles and chokes, drowning in his own blood.

Red mist sprays from his mouth and bubbles from his neck and finally, in a slow and graceless defeat, his chin sinks to his chest. He falls sideways, slumped. Dead. Dead. The spell is broken. Lucy starts to scream and then bites down on her wrist, hard to stop herself. Her body is alive with a dragon.

adrenaline and fear. Out. I have to get out. And then, because she loves him... My brother is out there. I can hear him talking to that woman. And I have to get him out away from this before she slits our throats too. But as Lucy opens the toilet cabinet door, slowly, softly, she understands that it is too late. She can hear voices close to her, closer than they would be if they're. were both still standing outside the van. She inches cautiously out of the toilet, trying to

assume a neutral, pleasant expression and failing. She can see the eyes of the dying man in the closet, wide, glaring, begging for her help, then fixing on something far away as the life left him. There is the unmistakable sound of a bottle cap being popped off a beer bottle, and then another staccato. and a chink, glass upon glass. Then laughter, both male and female. Lucy edges around the corner of the toilet cabinet and sees her brother inside the van with the woman, an ice-cold bottle of Heineken on its way up to his mouth.

The bottle grazes his lips. Lucas? What? I might as well make the most of it. He chuckles, winking at the woman. Lucy feels sick and powerless. She has no doubt that the beer is drugged and that one solitary sip will be enough to put her brother out like a light.

The woman has removed her sunglasses. She watches Lucy with bright, cold, intelligent eyes, assessing her like a bird assessing an insect. You can't drink and drive, Lucas. Besides, I don't feel well. I'd like you... I'd like you to walk me back to the car. She tries to communicate that something is horribly wrong with her eyes,

but the idiot only has eyes for the woman who is, admittedly, gorgeous. Lucy can see that now. She has long legs and long, dark hair and full red lips. She's also a murderous predator, but Lucy guesses that doesn't translate so well at first glance. Lucas makes no move to the purpose. part, so Lucy lunges forward, grabbing his wrist. Come on!

She pulls him away, towards the door, towards safety, and the crazy woman puts down her be a bottle in a slow, graceful, and deliberate movement, and reaches into a pocket for something hidden and takes a step forward, and Lucy feels as if her heart will burst from fear as she pulls and pulls urgently on Lucas's wrist, trying to drag him. him to safety, trying to leave the nightmare van, and the woman takes another step forward and something bright and shining slides free from her pocket, and Lucy can see that it is a knife. She can tell that Lucas hasn't spotted it yet, and she feels a scream swelling in her throat, and then...

And then she hears it. Or, more accurately, she becomes aware of it, despite everything else that is happening. It rises and looms like an approaching wave. Quiet at first, then building in intensity and urgency. It is the sound of people screaming. Lucy tears her eyes away from the woman reluctantly, trying to establish which threat is greater and glances to the open door to see what is happening outside.

Because something... Something is happening. Something somehow worse than the dying man in the closet. All the hairs are up on the back of her neck, and her arms prickle with goose flesh. Something terrible is going on. There is a blur of activity, and a man races past, eyes wide with panic. His shirt is red with spray patterns of gore. Within moments, he is gone, running for his life,

his arms and legs pumping hard. Lucy hears a thumb and a large, metallic, screeching sort of crash in the distance. What the fuck? She moves as if in a dream towards the door, towing Lucas behind her, for she has not let go of his wrist. The woman with the knife seems to have lost interest in them

and is frozen like a deer in headlights, nostrils flaring as she listens to the oncoming tired of screams, crashes and thuds. What is it? Another streak of movement, and another man stumbles past, and then a woman, and then more people. Children, men, women, old, young, dogs. Everyone is suddenly running, running and screaming. A desperate exodus of people abandoning their cars and racing away from...

From something. But what? The screeching, crashing, squeezed metal noise gets closer, followed by loud, distinct thumps that shake the ground, rattling the walls of the Winnebago. Hundreds of voices raise up in anguish and panic. And Lucas and Lucy look at each other, wide-eyed. Let's go.

Then they are out of the van, and running too, running for their lives, like small, feral animals fleeing a burning forest. The woman in the van, the body in the cabinet, it all pales in comparison to what is happening around them. The thumps and crashes get closer and closer, and the ground shakes beneath the weight of something monstrously huge. Lucy trips, plowing forward, her ankle turning under her and is almost trampled underfoot by the crowds of people behind. But Lucas halls are up just in time. She regains her footing, sobbing, almost blind with terror, limping on regardless,

and realizes that they are moving in the wrong direction, because whatever it is behind them is herding them along like cattle towards something. It hits her like a lightning strike that their only hope for survival is the brink. break free of the tangled, scared stampede, and get off the motorway. And so, Lucy makes an abrupt 90-degree turn, gripping her brother's wrist so hard she can feel her nails digging into his flesh, dragging him behind in her slipstream, and she crashes into men and women, all these people,

all of them running in the wrong direction. But she doesn't stop, doesn't look back. She smashes her hip into a car, bounces off, catches her outstretched arm and the open boot of another, keeps going. She is headed for the bank of the motorway, knowing that their best chance lies in getting off the tarmac and away from the road altogether. The squealing, crashing noises move closer. And there is something else coming now, too. A smell not unlike the smell that leaked out of the boot of their... car earlier that day as it sat stinking in the sun, not unlike the smell in the cabinet where

the man with a slit throat lay drowning in his own blood. And Lucy knows what it is suddenly. It is the stench of death. Death is coming for them, on huge, heavy feet. Then Lucy, who is running and limping forward like a soldier through no man's land, remembers something. She remembers the body in the trunk of their car. The edge of the motorway is closer now, and beyond the vehicles and crowds, she can see a bright field of ripening wheat. It's dotted with vibrant red poppies.

From here, they look like drops of blood. Lucy and Lucas make a final push through the charging throngs of people and throw themselves over a burning hot metal crash barrier that lines the edge of the motor. way. This catapults them into a ditch, which they roll into and then crawl out of, lurching onwards into the wheat field. Long, dry stalks, some of which are still green, brush against their legs as they move, whispering things to them. It is as if a thousand thin, sibilant voices are

singing the same song. And the song is an ugly one. We know what you did. The wheat's stalks say. We know. A great spine-chilling roar lifts into the air around them like a flock of black starlings taking flight, swirling about, filling every available inch of space with unending rage and pain and torment. The siblings collapsed to the ground, flattening the wheat stalks, clamping their hands over their ears, from which blood now trickles, as it does from their nostrils.

as it does from their nostrils. The earth shakes with those colossal steps. Lucy can bear it no longer. She opens her eyes and understands at last what is happening to her. She is in hell. Before her, rising above the wheat and the cars and the people, like a vast monument to the dark, strides a horse-headed beast,

A skeletal thing on corded legs, naked, soiled, and trailing thick banners of acrid smoke behind it. Those banners curl and climb into the blue sky, reaching for the sun. Massive satin black wings flex on the beast's back, creating a shuddering new horizon, throwing those who scuttle below it into the shadows. It walks carefully, picking up. its way through the traffic jam, scanning the motorway. And then, at what seems at first to be on a random whim, it brings one vast hoofed foot down hard upon a vehicle. The metallic squealing noises make sense now. As car after car, vans, including the Winnebago, lorries, bikes and trailers

are trampled into thin masses of warped, smoking metal and glass. But it isn't random. It's searching. Searching with its empty eye sockets, looking for something, choosing which cars to destroy and which to save. And then it stops. There is silence for a blissful second where not even the wheat sings to them. Lucy holds her breath, as does Lucas. The beast stills, lifting its head high, scenting the air. It braze, flexing its wings once more, and then the vast, ancient evil head swings slowly towards them. There is no escape. Lucy closed. closes her eyes as the ground shivers beneath her. She has set herself on this part, brought herself to this place, her and her brother.

Thou shalt not kill, it says in the Bible. They knew the rules from birth, but chose to ignore them. They killed, they murdered, they committed the ultimate sin. And now they are here. alone in a field of wheat dotted with bright crimson poppies, and the very earth is shaking. Lucy opens her eyes one last time, the smell of death stealing into her mouth, and comes face to face with the beast. It stares at her with empty holes for eyes, and if she looks hard enough, she can see fire

in the distance. And in the fire, the bodies of thousands of people who are all just like her, writhing in agony. Then it raises one leg, and Lucas is screaming beside her. But Lucy is tired and doesn't want to run anymore. The foot comes down. The sun shines on. And in a parked car on an abandoned motorway in the middle of a steaming hot summer's day, blood drips from the trunk, running down the resin bumper and pooling onto the tarmac.

It sizzles as it lands. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and dark. darkness deep. Remain with us. Embrace no sleep. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive. Executive Producer David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25.

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